


[Commission] Transforming for Daddy Malacath

by CombiningPowers



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: Anal, Blowjobs, Bukkake, Caught, Creampie, Cum drinking, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Fingering, Forced Bonding, Gangbang, Hardcore, Lactation, M/M, Milk, Muscle Growth, Muscle Worship, Muscles, Nord, Orc, Punishment, Rimming, Scent Fetish, Story, Sweat, Transformation, armpit - Freeform, armpit worship, bareback, bj, dream state, orc transformation, rough, scent, sweat fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CombiningPowers/pseuds/CombiningPowers
Summary: Chrisjolf Ironhand, a Nord weakling with goals and aspiration of becoming a renowned warrior, decides that challenging and besting the nearby Orc Chieftain will win him the admiration and envy of those who bully and taunt him. Getting his wish, Chrisjolf begins the fight and soon learns he's way in over his head, pummelled to the ground in just a few moments; the Orc deciding to punish the intruder with some brutal loving. Slipping in and out of consciouseness as he's violated, Ironhand 'wakes up' in an ashy realm of Oblivion, meeting the Daedric Prince; Malacath in the flesh, who has an offer for the brave Nord. Accepting, the 32 year old bonds with the musky, beefy Orc and slowly transforms into a hulking, green beast himself as he guzzles both cum and lactate; re-emerging in the real world with a bone to pick with the abusive Chieftain.
Relationships: Chrisjolf Ironhand (OC)/Malacath
Kudos: 9





	[Commission] Transforming for Daddy Malacath

"I'm sure its around here somewhere, unless I took a left instead of a right. Fucking maps," muttered Chrisjolf Ironhand to himself as he clambered up the snowy, rocky terrain with his steel-plated boots, barely feeling the freezing wind as his proud Nord blood flowed through his mead-filled veins. The 32 year old made sure to grab every plant and thistle that graced his path as he sought after the Orcish Stronghold of Narzulbar, stuffing his pockets with the alchemical reagents for his family's brewery business back in Windhelm. "Juniper berries? Perfect for sweetness," chuckled the stubbly man loudly as he made sure to not squish them in his satchel, quickly eating a few loaves of stale bread to make room.

His heavy steel armour, soaked in wolves blood after the devilish and furry fiends attacked him for no reason, glistened like a beacon as the crimson splatters reflected the morning light; the Nord carrying the excess weight with moderate discomfort and pain, preferring flexible deer-hide furs to this hulking mass. He had always been mocked by his relatives for having a more slender frame which didn't pop and bulk like his brothers and even sisters; despite possessing similar strength in his ability to swing a Greatsword with ease. The fact that he could read was another detriment to him, his arrogant father joking that maybe he preferred the life of a nosy scholar rather than a warrior on the battlefield, which was untrue.

To prove them wrong and finally put an end to their insulting jeers, Chris decided to venture out on his own and conquer the nearby Orcish stronghold, aiming to defeat their leader and show off his true physical prowess. The Orsimer were always known for their brutal combat and fine weaponry and not even a rational-minded Nord could disagree that they made fine and honourable opponents when push came to shove, despite technically being of the same cloth as the insufferable Altmer. With the blood of a chieftain's jaw dripping down his knuckles, Pratt could finally declare himself worthy and gain his drunken family's approval ... if he could find the damned place.

Hours passed and as the sun reached its peak in the blue, cloudy skies above, the Nord explorer finally found the refined and well-constructed stronghold, thick pillars of neatly lumbered trees surrounding the longhouse in a strong and hulking wall. Huffing and puffing as his poor body mishandled the heavy steel strapped to his bruised limbs, the 32 year old staggered towards the carved entrance like an elderly man using a set of stone-steps, his vision blurred as his sweaty body oozed and dripped with perspiration. Pained marks from his blunt pauldrons and chest-piece dotted his flesh and every step was agony, yet still he persisted as best as he could. 

"Halt who goes there? State your business or walk away. I won't warn you a second time," called out a rugged female voice from atop the wooden watchtower, Chrisjolf looking up to meet her gaze; instead peering into the powerful sunlight which beamed into his eyes. It was the last straw for the exhausted and overstimulated figure and he collapsed right then and there, unable to even voice a proper reply before his body caved. "Alright, that's ... different?" chided the confused Orcish woman as she looked down on the collapsed warrior, half-debating to just leave him for the trolls to gobble on. Sighing as she realised that would only attract MORE trolls in the future, she hopped down from her perch and opened the gates, eager to loot the poor sod before taking him to the wise-woman.

-

"FUCK!" screamed Ironhand as he suddenly jolted back to reality from his surprisingly pleasant dreamscape, sitting up straight in the fur-ladled cot as he felt a shrill coldness press and sink into his uncovered skin. "Calm down young blood, let the tincture soothe your joints and bruises," sounded a gentle and mildly frail voice as a hunched Orcish woman refilled her medicine vials from her paste-filled mortar, humming an unfamiliar tune as she watched over her patient. Biting his lip as the creamy mixture stung his blistered wounds, Chrisjolf looked around with mild fear, only hearing stories about how Orcs liked to cannibalise the other races and shoot soul-fire from the small horns that dotted their foreheads and brows. "Where am I? You're going to, eat me ... are you?" asked the bedridden warrior as a nervous twitch infested his voice, the old wise-woman blinking in bewilderment as she uncorked the vial in her hands.

"Eat you? What are we? Bosmer? Bleh," laughed the cackling figure as she took a few deep breaths, trying not to embarrass her young patient who's knowledge of the world clearly had gaps in certain areas. Blushing as his question was nonetheless answered, Ironhand slowly got out of bed, making sure to not smear any of his ointment on the skinned animal sheets which kept him nice and warm. Noticing immediately that he was naked as a draft washed against his hairy taint like an unwelcome whisper, the 32 year old quickly covered himself with his hands as he spotted his sweaty loincloth, quickly re-dressing himself before he made an even greater fool of himself. "You're in the longhouse in our Stronghold. You collapsed outside and I guess our watcher didn't want you to die a ... awkward death," explained the wrinkled woman as the door suddenly flew off its hinges, cold air and piercing light sailing into the enclosed space.

"So, you're the outsider? Well, looks to me like you can walk and breathe so, explain your business! Why were you marching towards our Stronghold!" shouted a brutish figure as his silhouette took up the entire doorway, Chrisjolf wincing as he fell back into the soft cot and blocked his eyes, feeling an adrenaline rush begin to surge through his frame. "Please son, he's only just woken up from his slumber, I'm sure he needs more ti-" began the wise-woman before the Orcish figure stomped his foot against the ground, releasing a small, thunderous wave that shook the bed frame and the numerous bottles on the shelf. "You have done more than enough for this ... Nord scum! Leave me," demanded the powerful individual as she obeyed without hesitation, closing the door gently behind her as she let the Chieftain take matters into his own hands.

With the pesky light finally removed from his brown eyes, the 32 year old could finally get a decent look at his aggressor, looking up into dark green eyes which furrowed and emanated an aura of disgust and hatred. The Orc, standing at least a solid 6'5, was covered in Orcish plate accompanied with boots and gauntlets to match, save for a helmet which was nowhere to be found. Through the gaps and spaces in the solid armour, Ironhand could see rippling, bulky muscles squeezing their way out of their metallic prison, bristling with hair and sweat which sweltered like a forest against dark green flesh. A small kickback to his brothers teasing him about his frame and physique suddenly came back to the stunned 32 year old, already feeling incredibly weak and small in comparison to the towering chieftain.

"I came here-" began Chrisjolf before he was rudely interrupted by the Orc loudly cracking his knuckles, the shrill 'pops' bouncing off the metal casings that surrounded each finger and knuckle. "Were you saying something? You're gonna have to talk a bit louder before I shove my boot down your throat," seethed the figure as he crossed his arms and grinded his plate against his gauntlets, producing an annoyingly pitched hum which filled the longhouse like a wailing siren. "I said that I came here to-" started the 32 year old again before a loud and obnoxious burp cut him off mid-sentence, the Orc playing it off as if nothing was wrong. "Continue?" jabbed the chieftain as his face twisted into an arrogant, cunt-like smirk, Chrisjolf's dominant hand curling into a fist as he stared into the scarred and battered mug.

"I CAME HERE TO FIGHT YOU! TO BEAT YOU INTO A BLOODY PULP!" howled Ironhand finally as he shot out of bed, resting on the balls of his feet as he tried to match the other creature's height in a battle for masculinity, unfortunately coming in a little short at 6'1 at the most. The Orc, puzzled as his fragile brain processed the information, burst into orchestral laughter as his large eyes began to moisten with tears; suddenly marching out of the longhouse and heading towards the centre of the stronghold. Unsure of what to do, Ironhand followed after grabbing a small set of fur armour which was laid on the edge of his bed, quickly donning the gear and hopping out of the spacious structure, hoping he hadn't accidentally incited an execution or anything of the sort. 

-

"Everyone, drop what you're doing and come to me. I have urgent news to spill!" yelled the chieftain as he held his hands around his mouth, inciting the entire community to gather around the large, burning fire-pit which was strewn with dried meats and utensils. Gulping as the unknown began to creep into his nerves, Chrisjolf held himself high in the doorway as he felt his makeshift armour begin to stick to the medicinal paste which still slathered his numerous bruises; hoping he wouldn't have to return the stained and sticky clothing to the kind woman who helped him. "What is it? We've got daggers to smith," sounded out a few voices as more and more Orcs came creeping out the woodwork, all coloured varying shades of green and wearing clothing or armour that best suited their roles in the stronghold.

"Oh shut the hell up Yazol, you make way too many to begin with," chided the alpha male as he cast a wide shadow across the open courtyard, cold wind from the mountains sailing over the space in a thin, wispy gale. Satisfied with the sea of faces which surrounded him, the arrogant chief began to slowly clap, waiting for the right moment as all eyes laid on him. "I regret to inform you that today is my last day as chief. For you see, I am to be bested ... by an outsider!" dramatically recounted the armoured brute as he crouched onto one leg, drawing a 'line' with his finger across his wide neck while sticking out his tongue. The crowd, unsure as to what their leader meant, either fell into the gullible pile or began chuckling to themselves, waiting for the inevitable punchline that was to follow.

"For you see, Malacath himself has predicted, that THIS Nord will be my downfall," pointed the chieftain as all eyes turned to Chrisjolf, who turned red as a tomato as he felt both humiliation and embarrassment sweep over him like the wind. A chorus of mocking laughter sounded out from the group as they got a glimpse of the slender, thin human who walked among them, pushing each other out of the way to get a better angle to gawk at. Ironhand felt incredibly pissed-off as he leaned against the doorway, unsure if his best course of action was to simply walk out of the gates and never return; uncaring as to what happened to his steel armour which he had borrowed from one of his brothers. It's not like anyone would know of his shame if he simply left, to resume his life as if the last day never happened at all.

A minute passed with nothing but the infuriating noise of endless jokes and guffawed shrieks, the Nord looking down at the ground as his mind pondered his penultimate decision. "No, I'm not leaving," whispered the 32 year old Nord to himself as he channelled his fury into action, biting his bottom lip as he charged forwards with agility and swiftness, silent as he pulled his arm back and clenched his right hand into a fist. He could feel blood begin to pool around his front-teeth as they cleaved into his bottom-lip, though he made no sound as his hand collided with the back of the chieftain's head; the crowd too distracted to properly warn their leader of the incoming strike.

-

The sound was thunderous, like a hammer smacking into an anvil, the chief unceremoniously falling forward into the ground as he was knocked off guard. Huffing and puffing as he stood over the downed figure, a deep and satisfying feeling of pride swelled in the younger man's heaving chest, his knuckles still humming with a dull tingle as blood rushed to his pained fingers. "I'll give you that one boy, since that's the last hit you're ever going to make!" suddenly darted the familiar voice as a thick, armour-covered arm swept in a wide-circle, knocking Chrisjolf to the ground with a single swipe, the 32 year old gasping as the air was literally knocked out of him in a spluttery plume. His legs ached as the aftershock of the powerful hit sunk into his flesh, Ironhand wincing in intense pain as he rolled out of the away, needing to get back onto his feet before he was pinned and possible killed on the spot.

The crowd, seeing the brawl begin, formed a wide circle around the duo to give them plenty of space, some Orcs cheering on their leader and inciting him to crush the skull of the filthy Nordic intruder. Ignoring their jeers and focusing instead on his foe, the Nord side-stepped and used his speed to his advantage, knowing that the only thing that mattered was a knockout; not the method of how you won. Like an impenetrable fortress, the chieftain waited for his prey to come in for the attack, letting his arms drop down to his sides as he severely underestimated his opponent. "Scamper around like a skeever all you want boy, its going to be your blood that I bathe in tonight!" cried out the brute as he hit his own chest-plate like an animal, even cutting his hand on the edges which did nothing to phase him in the slightest.

The lightly-dressed figure, feeling the pressure of a thousand eyes weigh down on him, went in for a quick attack while side-stepping out of the way, treating the Orc as he would a giant. As the giant's would seemingly take minutes to swing their clubs, it was simple to dodge out of the way. Unfortunately for the recently recovered man, his towering foe was more agile than he let on, easily getting a hard punch into Ironhand's shoulder as the two neared one another. "Fuck!" yelled out the 32 year old as he clutched his poor shoulder, feeling as though his arm was about to fall off at the joint. Before he could properly process the damage, he was hit in the face and thrown backwards in his moment of distraction, blood spilling out of his mouth as his battered body cried out in agony.

His head swirled and it felt as though all his teeth had fallen out, Chrisjolf quickly running his tongue over his gums to check for gaps; relieved when all he downed was thick, crimson blood which had already mixed with his saliva, heading down straight into his stomach. Jumping onto his feet, Ironhand charged once again at his quarry, suddenly dropping down and sliding on his ass as he reached the armoured Orc. Gliding across the ground and using his feet to propel him upwards at the last moment, he dodged the initial blow and was able to connect with fist with the chief's nose, only getting shoved when the yelling opponent used his chest to push him away. "Ow fuck," howled the chief as a newfound rage boiled within him, switching from defence to attack in the blink of an eye.

Still getting his footing after being pushed away, the 32 year old was mercilessly punched by the quick Orc, the green-skinned beast funnelling multiple blows into his opponent's chest and stomach. Gasping as he was treated like a straw-filled target dummy, the Nord could literally feel his ribs cracking and his spleen splintering inside of him, wincing in extreme pain as he was combo attacked. Falling to the ground while clutching his bruised flesh, Chrisjolf was gifted with a swift kick to the face in his downed state, his neck whip-lashing backwards as the metallic boot cracked his jaw. Even the onlookers squinted in dismay as the sound and sight infected their senses, their blood-lust fading away at the difference in overall might spelled out the unfortunate results from the start.

Dizzy and wrecked with stinging, throbbing torment that almost sent him into a coma, Ironhand continued to try and get back up, coughing up blood and fragments of teeth which were chipped from the last blow. Knowing that he had no chance of beating his foe, Ironhand did his best to at least lose valiantly, though he was barely able to stand after the beatdown he had just received, kneeling on his legs as his top-half wavered like a sign in the wind. "Had enough boy?" jested the armoured figure as he stomped around his prey, pretending to rush in and punch or kick to scare the poor and bloodied Nord. "A true Nord, never backs down," sputtered Chrisjolf as he fell forwards, luckily landing on his outstretched arms, essentially stuck in a 'praying' position as his knees kept their strength and resolve.

"The wise-woman who nursed you could put up a better fight! You're worse than the rats which I crush with every step," declared the chief proudly as he eyed the interesting sight, noticing that his opponent was dazed and almost about to pass out in quite the compromising position. "What's this? Are you surrendering yourself to me? Is this how you make the bad men go away back in your hovel of sticks and twine!" continued the chieftain as he grew aroused and horny at the implication of their battle, the other orcs cheering him on to kill and dispose of the outsider. "Since you're worse than the women of my stronghold, maybe you should be treated as such," howled the brute as he began to undo the straps surrounding his under-half, slowly walking towards the gasping Chrisjolf from behind.

The other orcs could see the fire in their leader's eyes and became confused, unsure as to what their chieftain had planned as he began to relieve himself of his armour. "Killing you is too much of an honourable gesture. Using your body as a sleeve for my cock is the right way to tarnish your fucking legacy. Coming here to challenge me, the gall," spat the towering beast as he finally freed his erection from his sweaty and stained small-clothes, already at full hardness as the thought of raping his prey in front of his tribe fuelled his deep, dark machinations. "My ancestors smile upon me, you won't ... win," fought back Ironhand as he tried to get back up, instead slumping and arching even further against the ground, a pool of blood forming around his mouth which crept up into his cheeks and hair.

He knew he was finished, though his fist remained clenched in the hope of a second-wind, the 32 year old feeling a small tear form in his eye as he felt the Orc's thick and hot appendage begin to rest against his exposed rear. His fur breeches were torn off in a furious frenzy as he tried his best to resist, wrecked with agony as his broken body refused to listen to his commands. Feeling a breeze against his bare, hairy ass-cheeks which were spread apart by thick, meaty fingers, Chrisjolf felt a blackness begin to shroud from the corners of his vision; his mind finally caving into his injuries and taking him to sleep as his virginity was violently snatched away from him in the middle of the crowd.

-

"Where am I ... what's going ... on," mumbled Chrisjolf to himself as he laid flat in the consuming dirt, slowly regaining consciousness as his body and mind became synchronised after his pained ordeal. The bruises, cuts, scrapes and aches panged in regular patterns as his remaining blood circulated his battered system, the 32 year old gritting his broken and chipped teeth out of necessity; adding an extra layer of torture to his sentence. Laying on his stomach with his head turned to the side, Ironhand could feel a thick sludge slowly trickle out of his forcibly stretched asshole; his thighs and legs covered in the salty mess which coated him like a slimy trail of dishonour. It was awful to say the least, the human pondering if he would be permitted entry to Sovengarde now that he was delegated to the weak and victimised; his eyes moistening with stinging tears. However, as weirdly as it was to describe, the Nord didn't quite feel like himself, as if there was a disconnect between his senses and the 'real' world which surrounded him.

"About time you woke up, I was beginning to grow bored," interjected a gravelly voice that sent fearful shock-waves through the downed man, who hesitantly craned his neck upwards in preparation for round 2 of his punishment. But as the Nord gingerly peered upwards, he noticed that the sky and stars were not that of Eastmarch, and that the Orc standing over him was not the chieftain who had previously defiled him. "Who are you?" asked the injured human as he strained and tried to push himself up with his arms, somehow managing to complete the arduous task despite his state; now resting on his knees as his eyes became accustomed to the nighttime darkness which shrouded him. "I am Malacath, Daedric Prince of the spurned and ostracised," proudly announced the being as he raised his arms in dramatic fashion, small orbs of light descending around the duo and revealing the scenery to the bewildered Nord.

Chrisjolf's eyes darted from left to right as he absorbed the new environment, amazed at how serene and unique the terrain and skies transformed from his last bout of consciousness. Fine sand and ash collected around his kneeling legs in a sprawling desert as a swirling hurricane of dust hovered around in the distance, the two protected by an invisible barrier which kept the neverending storm at bay. There was nothing to be seen for miles on end except for an arching stone throne which Malacath stood over, blackened eyes staring deeply into his own and piercing his very soul. "You're in my realm of Oblivion now. I hope the Ashpit isn't too much of a departure from your ... natural setting," grunted the Daedric Prince as he took a seat in his rightful throne, spreading his thick and muscular legs apart and exposing his naked physique to his guest, his enlarged organ flopping downwards like a third leg.

The young human averted his gaze out of respect and fear as he wondered about the afterlife, a deep pressure slowly building within his gut as the revelation that he may have died sank into his buzzing mind. He was no expert on Daedric Princes and other planes of existence, but there certainly couldn't be anything good to come with meeting one in the flesh; despite the tranquil peacefulness that enraptured him in the very moment. "Why am I here? Are you to take me to Oblivion? To be tortured until the end times?" softly questioned Chrisjolf as he looked up from his downed position, his jaw shaking as his fear bubbled to the surface. "No, in fact, I'm here to offer you an invitation," ingrained the being as he gestured for his guest to approach him; craning a meaty finger whilst compelling the human.

The Nord obeyed the illustrious command and crawled towards the Daedric entity, the pain subsiding as he closed the distance; his mind now focused on the singular task at hand. "I watched your fight with one of my many children, and I have to say, you showed fierce tenacity despite the odds being stacked in your favour," said Malacath as his quarrel slowly approached, mesmerised by the deep words and masculine allure of the god-like being. "To don his heavy armour and use it as a weapon for an opponent who could barely stand on his own, that is not the way that I taught my children to fight with honour," continued the Orc as he reached down to touch and cradle the human's injured jaw in his rough hands.

"You have always been ostracised, shunned by those around you. You are the very vessel for my essence," lovingly enraptured Malacath as Ironhand rested his hands against the Daedric Prince's thighs and legs, feeling safe and whole as he touched and pressed his flesh against the other Orc's naked body. The 32 year old could smell the being's rich and musky odour flood his nostrils as he knelt between the two powerful legs, a wave of heat washing over his exposed skin as the two almost embraced. "Do you wish for power to fight back? Do you accept what I can offer you?" whispered the Orc as he brought his face closer and closer to the Chrisjolf's, his protruding tusks almost brushing against the bloodied cheeks which were laced with cuts. Ironhand nodded as a new sensation of both love and lust hugged and nurtured his soul, wanting to become closer with the masculine being which had him wrapped by the reins.

-

"Then let's not waste any time," grunted the seated being as he sat back in his throne and lifted up his right arm, revealing his bushy, wet armpit which was tangled with a forest of hair; Malacath gesturing with his head for his new subject to dig into his gift. Ironhand pushed all feelings of doubt out of his thoughts as he followed his urges and will, clambering the stone throne and burying his face in the musky pit, moaning loudly as the oily and pungent sweat brushed into his skin, nose and lips. The smell was intoxicating and fervently stuck to the inside of the man's nostrils as he inhaled the heat-filled fumes, rich notes of salty sweat and earthy perspiration bathing his senses in a cloud of musky odour. Already he felt revitalised as his lungs became saturated with the Orc's heavy and strong scent, his cuts healing and disappearing off of his face as he plunged his snout further and deeper.

His tongue, gingerly swabbing the exposed armpit, soon fully extended as Chrisjolf whorishly licked and lapped at the hairy nook, the savoury taste dancing across his salivating tastebuds. Despite being accustomed to the sweeter varieties of mead and wine, the tepid saltiness was a welcome palate-cleanser for the 32 year old, who eagerly sucked on the bushy hairs and extruded every molecule of flavour from the awaiting armpit as he pursed his lips together. His tongue sang and hummed as it was gifted with the Daedric Prince's own musky raunch, drool spilling out of his dripping maw as he cleaned and polished every inch of exposed flesh with the enthusiasm of a desperate prostitute, much to Malacath's pleasure. "Let my essence control and wash over you," moaned the Orc as the rest of his muscular, firm body reacted to the worshipping, his pores oozing with beads of moisture as his subject carried out his repressed business.

As he guzzled the armpit juices and perspiration with mesmerised glee, Chrisjolf could feel his wounds begin to heal, able to move comfortably in more positions as his joints and bruises cleared like the skies after a brutal snowstorm. With his restored flexibility, Ironhand moved his lower-half to straddle his new God as he craved the feeling of Malacath's bulging muscles press against his own. Feeling the entity's thick and dripping appendage rest against his own ass-cheeks, the Nord smiled as he arched downwards and feasted on the untouched pit of desire, groaning even louder as his tongue slathered the raunchy area in spit. The left armpit was even more nourishing and sustaining than the right, Ironhand snorting like a pig as his lips and maw did their best to suck-up every ounce of condensed musk. The Orc joined in the activity and used his free hand to violently press and force his human subject deeper into his underarm cavity, grunting in bliss as the loyal and patched-up whore moaned in ecstasy.

Being the slender and underdeveloped Nord that he was, there was no doubt that the 32 year old had often held his ripped older brothers and burly, hairy father in high-esteem, even taking his natural curiosity to new depths over the last few years. The number of times he'd peek on them while they trained for combat in the buff or 'misplace' their sweaty, stained small-clothes for his personal usage were too high to count, the Daedric Orc smiling as the human's lewd history flooded into his ethereal grasp like pages in a book. "You will become greater than them in every shape and form," groaned Malacath in a soft whisper as he begin to rock his chiselled hips, cradling the smaller man who was still too busy devouring his wet, glistening pits; the ageless entity convinced that his invited guest could spend the entire 4th Era buried in his sweaty pits; not that he would've minded the erotic treatment.

"Time for the next phase in your shaping," ordered the naked Orc as his own libido began to spiral upwards, lowering his arms and sealing off his treasured armpits with a saliva-dripping squelch, bringing his fingers to his massive pecs which jutted from his toned chest. Licking his lips for the last dribs of musky flavour, Ironhand obeyed the command and began to focus on the green mounds, wiping his wet lips against the two erect nipples which poked from the centre of each structure; squeezing the firm flesh with his hands as his ass rubbed against Malacath's thighs and pelvis. The two pecs were voluminous and balloon-like, though the dense and strewn muscle beneath made them perky in a unique manner. The nipples were dark as coal and the Nord felt a compulsion to suck and nibble on them, much to the Prince's admiration.

"Let my essence fill your stomach," moaned the seated figure as his teats suddenly exploded with rich, creamy milk; Chrisjolf recoiling backwards in surprise and shock as the warm liquid dribbled down his beard. It was a sight to behold as the dark green flesh and nipples became contrasted with flowing rivers of pearly-white lactate, flowing and following down the grooves of Malacath's staunch physique. Letting the sweetness wash over his tongue, the Nord's pupils went wide before he dived back into the perky pecs, groaning feverishly as he attempted to down as much of the delicious concoction as possible. The Daedric Lord forced his subject even further with his arms and hands, keeping the man in a headlock while forcing him to suckle and nurse on his bountiful offering, both beings enjoying the man-handling foreplay.

For a few seconds, the 32 year old would be cut off from oxygen as his lips suctioned around the oozing teat, his mouth filling with the creamy milk which he guzzled down without a second thought. With every hedonistic gulp, he felt his muscles begin to glow and repair themselves from the inside, energising him better than a good night's rest by the hearth. The copious amounts of lactate made for a messy experience as the Nord sputtered and splattered his milk like a newborn calf, groaning with half-closed and fluttered eyes as his chin and neck became stained with the white fluid. He felt in his element however and the Orc didn't seem to mind the gurgles breaths of huffed exhalation, if his throbbing, pre-cum shooting cock pressing into the human's rocking ass was anything to scry information from. 

Already the human could feel his stomach begin to bloat and bulge as the warm nourishment sloshed within him, giving him a noticeable bump which filled him with a deeply relaxing aura, his body wet with the excess lactate that dribbled down their skin and off the stone throne, forming puddles as it branched off into the ashy sand surrounding them. "It is time for the final preparations," panted Malacath as he stood up off of his towering seat, Chrisjolf carefully climbing off the large figure and wiping the sticky fluid from his neck and chest, sucking on his fingers as his own hardened length pulsed down against his wet leg. He didn't know what the next phase would be, but if it was anything like the last two, the Nord was happy to indulge, hoping he would have another chance to immerse himself in the two sexy armpits once again before their 'ritual' was complete.

-

Lost in his thoughts, Ironhand was unprepared as Malacath suddenly reached out with both arms and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees which made a loud thud as they collided with the small stone surface below. Looking up to meet the blackened gaze, the 32 year old was face-fucked without restraint as they meaty, 12-inch cock was pushed into his face, parting his lips and shoving its way down into his throat. It happened so quickly that the Nord couldn't even let out a grunt or squeal as his airways were stretched apart to make way for their new veiny inhabitant, the leftover spit and milk luckily serving as ample lubrication for the monster organ. "That's it, get my sword nice and polished," growled the hunkering beast as he placed his hands around his downed subject, clamping him still as he pistoned his hips back-and-forth.

Chrisjolf hadn't noticed earlier but during either the lactation or armpit-lapping, his mouth and teeth had also healed along with his body, his main concern being he didn't want to accidentally scrape or lacerate his Master's powerful cock with his chipped dentistry. Luckily his maw was as smooth and wet as an oyster as he accepted the thundering, punching pole; loud slurping groans escaping his lips as he was tightly face-fucked. It felt right and it felt deserved as he tasted the sweaty penis, wrapping his tongue around the thick appendage like a snake as he did his best to pleasure the large Orc God; pre-cum already tricking down his pipes and mixing with the earlier milk which had settled in his gut. "You'll make a fine instrument, a worthy mortal for my seed!" boomed the Orc as his fingers dig and twisted into the human's brown hairy, dragging him into his loins which sweltered with heat and musk.

Chrisjolf felt his eyes twitch and cross into one another as he was unexpectedly 'gifted' with an intimate vision of his brothers using his throat in the same manner as his patron deity, every blink cycling through the muscular men in his family before returning to the Orc Prince of the spurned. The sensation and imagery only pushed the 32 year old further along his erotic course as he was delegated to a kneeling fleshlight, sticky and wet as his recovered jaw now ached as it was pried open with the veiny erection. Every breath he took through his snorting nose was infused with the previously ignored pubic musk which wafted from the stirred and pounding loins, deeply satisfying his urges as more and more of Malacath became intertwined with him. His pre-cum dripped onto the stone below as he gagged and choked on the mighty member, hands by his side as he obeyed the wishes of his Master.

"You really are a dirty little human, gorging on my cock like its your last meal," mocked Malacath as he grew intensely fond of his submissive pet, finding his innocent yet perverse nature to be quite an interesting spectacle. How a Nord went from challenging an opponent miles about his own skill-set to slurping his armpits and deepthroating his member was a transformation in and of itself. Chrisjolf only whined through his slobbery gullet as he started to try and lap at his Orcish Master's swinging ballsack which bounced against his sticky chin, desperate to try clean and polish the precious orbs and suck as much flavour from the sweaty, wrinkled surface. Pulling his massive 12-inch monster away and letting its dripping length rest against the kneeling human's panting face, he thrusted upwards and presented his balls to his subject, eager to dip them into the awaiting maw.

Ironhand, without shame, hungrily dove into the nuts and used his tongue to wash them clean, drooling all over the large gonads whilst getting them nice and marinated for sucking. Malacath groaned as he watched his entire sack disappear into his plaything's mouth, expertly crushed to maximise pleasure but minimise discomfort. Like the rest of the Daedric Prince, the hidden and reserved areas had the tastiest treasures and the 32 year old felt nostalgic as similar notes of musk and perspiration careened over his tastebuds, the tip of his wriggling tongue digging into the numerous wrinkled folds that enclosed around the hanging balls. "Fuck yea," groaned the ageless deity as he began to stroke and pinch his nipples, spraying ropes of milk all over the worshipping human, adding some extra cream to the already savoury mixture.

Feeling incredibly turned-on for the first time in what felt like centuries, Malacath grunted as he took what he wanted and progressed with his plan, lifting up his leg and resting it on the human's chest. Grinning as he looked up with needy, wanting eyes, Chrisjolf found himself falling onto his sweaty back as he was gently kicked; landing on some ash-covered stone which had risen up from the ground. Before he could properly react, the Orc had already gotten down on his knees and was lifting his bare legs upwards, exposing his widened asshole to the entity. "Good thing you've already been breached," smirked the tusked figure as his lust continued to surge, desperate to finally seal the pact and ruin the man's asshole for good.

"AHH FUCK!" screamed out Chrisjolf as his creampied entrance was once again infiltrated, his legs raised up into the air and resting on dark green shoulders which left him especially vulnerable and open. The tip of the Daedric's cock was flared and pulsing with pre-cum which made the rough entry slightly more bearable, though Malacath was taking no prisoners with his actions, mercilessly shoving himself into his prey with a twisted smile gracing his brutish face. "Power always comes at a price," whispered the stronger being as he jabbed his sword into its new, wet sheath, Ironhand letting out a fierce cry as a deep and pained pressure began to tear him open; tears beginning to form in his tear-ducts. 

Reaching out with both arms, the Nord grabbed fistfuls of ash as he was penetrated and pounded, only receiving around 6-inches of his Master's member so far. His body and systems cried out for help but the 32 year old calmed himself as best as he could, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes as his ass became a crushing haven for the cock currently inseminating him. "By Tusk you're a tight one," groaned the large being as he had to literally force his way deeper, using his strong back and muscular torso to piston and skewer the human subject, moaning as the tight tunnel squeezed his length intensely. Humans always were a fickle bunch when it came to receiving but that only made the 'bonding' that much more delicious, the Orc sneering in ecstasy as he watched the man struggle and wriggle underneath his immense weight and musculature.

Leaning forwards as he continued to pump and tunnel his way into his guest, the Nord turned his attention to the juicy pecs which were now being shoved into his face. Through teary eyes, the 32 year old reached out with pursed lips and suckled more of the delicious cream from before, minimising the pain as his asshole was given a thorough stretching. Malacath enjoyed the dual process and penetrated the man with even more power than before, feeling his tusks press against his cheek as 10-inches of his meat were swallowed up by the widening hole. A bubble of heat and musk surrounded the missionary duo as their frames grinded and rubbed against one another, the human finally letting out his first moans as the balance of pain and pleasure became tipped in favour of the latter.

Hearing the carnal vocalisation was enough for Malacath to crank his actions up to maximum, shoving his remaining manhood into Chrisjolf with the same blood-thirst as a warrior shoving a spear into an enemy rib-cage. Ironhand screamed as he was fully penetrated and unconsciously bit down on the perky teat, releasing a particularly powerful stream and inciting a roar from the Daedric Prince. Enjoying the roughness, the two continued to add a little pain and violence to their forceful lovemaking, the Orc now barrelling his hips as he properly fucked his pinned prey. The Nord, now slowly filling with both milk and ecstasy in his ass, wrapped his ashy arms around the other being, pulling him closer to get a better grip on the muscular pec.

The sounds of their wet and carnal 'slapping' bounced off the nearby stone surfaces, mixing with the noises and whines that escaped their lips. With every stroke and pump, the human became drunk on the pressure that juiced his prostate and stretched his guts, a warm and wet sensation bubbling around his ass as the frothy cum of the chieftain was literally fucked and churned, spilling out of him and dousing the pounding manhood that abused his hairy ass. Still sucking with the same ferocity as before, Ironhand felt his skin flush with warmth, losing himself in the intimate embrace as his asshole was gaped and exposed to another calibre of feelings, weirdly regretting passing out as he was initially raped; wishing he was conscious to feel his cherry pop for the first time.

"Fuck me harder, I want to be nothing but your cock-sleeve!" moaned the man in-between hungry slurps as the wet and sense torso of his aggressor rubbed against him, bathing him in brand new musk which fumed from the wet armpits above. Malacath grunted as he went in for the kill, thrusting his hips so hard that his cock was now a literal weapon that could truly kill someone if stabbed in the wrong place, treating their sex with the goal to try and skewer the human's internal organs. "TAKE MY SEED!" screamed out the brutish Orc as he shoved all 12-inches of his pole into the man below, crying out as his huge balls emptied their creamy, gifted load into the gaping receptacle.

It felt like a lightening strike as Chrisjolf's bowels became filled with the Daedric Prince's precious cum, a warm sweltering sensation taking root within his system as his tunnel became saturated and sticky with the salty substance. The strength he had in his arms and legs faded and the 32 year old went limp like a rag-doll, his pupils widening as his heartbeat rocketed upwards. Time seemed to slow as the infused semen continued to pump into his asshole, washing over his velvety insides like waves crashing against a cliff; seeping into his very body. This was nothing like a skooma high and the human gasped as Malacath removed himself from his doorway, feeling a newfound rage that his pleasure was interrupted.

Something was definitely happening and the Nord could feel it in his very soul, a change that was slowly making its presence known like the twisting roots of a tree; stretching along his body, muscles, bones and reaching upwards into his very brain. Overcome with a newfound rage and anger that he couldn't control, the human roared and leapt up onto his feet, before charging towards Malacath in the same way he had charged towards the Chieftain all so long ago. The Daedric Prince only smiled as he was ceremoniously tackled to the ground, as if he had expected such a reaction, gracefully falling to not injure himself against the stone flooring below.

-

"Do what you need to my child," whispered the sweating, huffing Orc as he could see the fires within the gifted human, Ironhand now overcome with a desperate need for more cock and more cum. Straddling the other being with a ravenous behaviour, the Nord angled himself so that his cum-filled hole was fervently rubbing against the recharged cock, wedging it between his cheeks but holding back the urge to simply ride the other entity. "What's happening to me?!" yelled the man as he dove back into the Orc's pecs and armpits, sniffing and licking rapidly like a pig as his ass cradled and rubbed against the 12-inch erection; succumbing to his lust which was now manipulating his body in whatever way it saw fit. Malacath only bellowed with laughter as he laid back and allowed the 32 year old to do as he saw fit, smirking as the sweaty human climbed off and immediately dropped onto all four's, arching his back while exposing his creamy, dripping ass.

"GIVE ME MORE! FUCK ME HARDER!" demanded Chrisjolf as he reached back and stretched his hairy ass-cheeks apart, pushing the tips of his fingers towards his oozing hole and lightly fingering himself open; moaning in-between rapid breaths. "How about I give you something a little harder," grunted Malacath as he got up off the ground and snapped his fingers, his 12-inch penis soon warping and growing until it was at least 16-inches long, now almost as wide as a small tree at this point. The man's eyes went wide with crazed intent as he began shaking his ass from side-to-side, sticking his tongue out like a dog as he craved the intense meat and accompanying load. "FUCK ME, NOW!" whined the lusty Nordic warrior as his wish was granted, the ageless Orc taking a second to align himself before seemingly using the forces of Oblivion to propel and enhance his thrusts.

"AHHH FUCK ME!" hollered the drooling, enraptured slut as he was pounded at least 10 times harder than before, his legs quaking as his asshole was completely filled and used, spurts of previous cumshots shooting out through the tiny gaps as the duo became one. The Daedric Prince was obviously holding back his previous strength but now barrelled his hips like a hurricane, churning the horny human and figuratively turning his sloppy insides into paste with every powerful pump and stroke he made. Chrisjolf couldn't get enough as he was properly fucked for the first time in entire life, letting out an extended and loud moan of ecstasy as he came uncontrollably, his cock wavering in-sync with the thrusts and painting the stone tiles beneath him in a messy and irregular line.

As he ejaculated, the Nord could feel his muscles begin to stretch and widen in all directions, ballooning underneath his skin and growing immeasurably. It didn't hurt in the slightest as the euphoria from his delayed orgasm continued to rivet through his system, his skin growing before his very eyes as it stretched and wrapped around his new biceps. It started with his arms as Ironhand looked from side-to-side as his skinny arms slowly grew in both size and density before moving to his shoulders and torso. His very bones were changing as the seconds passed, moving to their new positions to better accompany his swelling muscles which were now as hard as rock; similar to Malacath's and his own brothers.

Popping sounds emerged as his arm joints extended and broadened to the sides, his shoulders transforming from skinny to wide as his cock continued to torrent with cum. As he flexed his back, he already felt larger in both scope and space as new muscles reacted to his nerve impulses, finding it even easier to rest on all four's as if no energy was expended in the process. His neck began to widen as well to match his new proportions, veins now popping on the sides as his chest began to bloat and expand, the flat washboard surface now inflating outwards as his own pecs begin to take shape. Looking down as his ass was fucked nonstop, he could see his nipples expand and grow in the centre of his sexy C-cup pecs, hair now sprouting and giving him a mane to call his own.

It felt orgasmic and strange all at the same time as his physique were moulded like clay by forces unseen, Malacath grinning with pride as his cum finally took ahold of his new progeny. However, the transformation seemed to be only half-complete by this point, as Chrisjolf's lower-half remained unchanged in comparison to his buff and ripped top-half which looked weird and foreign. "Here you go!" moaned the Orc as he let the second of his rich, infused cumshots infest and surge into his prey's body, wincing as he squeezed his urethra and pumped out as much semen as possible, before pulling out and backing away to watch the magic take its place.

The second load seemed to have a different effect and Ironhand began to immediately start screaming as a burning sensation flowed through his ass, almost as if he had been stabbed and was now bleeding from his torn asshole. Getting up onto his knees by using his new powerful and rippling arms, he looked down and watched as his thighs and legs began to expand and develop, increasing and maturing to better match his stocky top-half. Though he never had twig-legs to begin with, his old form seemed to be even smaller as a new set of strong, rock-hard limbs grew into place, hair and muscles sprouting along the edges of his skin which was stretching to accommodate.

The transforming Nord felt into complete agony as his cock grew from its 5-inch length to a hearty 11-inches, his balls and enclosing sack expanding as if they were being pumped full of air; keeping in proportions with his wide shoulders and equally thick hips. His feet also began to enlarge and extend, his toenails almost doubling in size as the cartilage grew to match the rest of the wriggling digits. Touching himself and digging his fingers into his new hardened flesh, Chrisjolf smiled and laughed before the final of the changes finally took place, his face feeling as though someone was caving it in with a hammer from the inside. The burning continued to control and dominate him as his mostly human features were slowly erased; his nose and brow arching and growing to keep up with his morphing bone structure.

Letting out his agonised roars, his voice deepened a few octaves as his tusks finally began to sprout from his gums, forcing its way through and jutting upwards from the sides of his bottom-lip. He felt as though his skin was about to tear itself to pieces as he looked up at the ashy storm above, letting out a fierce and deepened howl as the transformation reached its peak, small and subtle changes soon occurring as a form of 'maintenance.' Clutching his more brutish and extended facial-features, Chrisjolf watched as his pink and peach-coloured skin darkened into a rippling shade of forest-green, the colour spreading from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes within a few seconds; leaving him as a true blood-kin to the Orcs.

Malacath watched and finally clapped as the rigorous and pained transformation came to a conclusion, Ironhand also noticing that he had grown in height as well, almost seeing eye-to-eye with the God of the spurned. Flexing his body and stomping his massive feet as if testing out a brand new sword, the post-orc smiled and poked himself bloody as his sharpened tusk punctured near his cheek, letting out a small 'ow' as blood dripped down the whitened tusk. "You now have earned the power you seeked. Do great things my child," thanked the Daedric Prince as he embraced Ironhand for the final time, the ashen storm soon descending on the duo as their time came to a conclusion.

-

"WHO DARES INTERRUPT MY SLUMBER!" yelled the naked Chieftain as he sat up in his bed, awoken by the loud crashing sound of items being knocked off shelves, wincing as his eyes adjusted to the lantern-light. Before he could properly ascertain the intruder, he found the menacing and staunchy figure stomping towards him, the Orc quickly reaching for his one-handed axe to defend himself. Just as he wrapped his meaty fingers around the metallic hilt, he wrist was grabbed and thrown off to the side, before the shadowy intruder reached towards his mid-section and easily grabbed him, pulling him harshly off the fur-laden bed. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!" resisted the Chieftain as he punched and battered the hard muscular arms that held him, gasping for air all of a sudden as he was literally lifted like a woman and carried over the other being's shoulder; much to his dismay.

His racket had already attracted the attention of the other orc's who rushed to defend their stronghold, wielding weapons and torches as they searched for the threat. Walking towards the centre where the blood from their last battle still splattered across the dirt and debris, Chrisjolf smirked as the chieftain's repetitive blows did nothing to his muscular frame and torso; proudly shrugging off the attacks as tiny insect bites. The onlookers, upon realising that their infiltrator was another Orc and not some vile were-beast, lowered their guards as the Code came back into effect, already planting seeds of doubt if their leader was so easily bested and restrained in such a manner. "I think it's time that you and I resume our match. On equal footing," sounded out Ironhand as he gave the other Orc a spank on the ass, oozing with confidence and arrogance in new his transformed flesh.

The others raised eyebrows in confusion, unable to piece the information together for their own, assuming this new burly intruder was an old rival of sorts. Even the chieftain prattled in response to the interjection, kicking and squirming like a bug as the thick and powerful hands kept him pinned to the wide shoulder. As a similar circle from before began to emerge as the midnight brawl began, Chrisjolf wasted no time and simply clobbered the Orc with the back of his hand on the back of his head, leaving the suspended being in a dizzied and drooling state as stars floated around his eyes. The others either cheered or lowered their heads as the battle seemed to start and finish on the same move, though the victor was not pleased with such a quick victory.

Reorienting the chieftain like a doll, Chrisjolf undid the strap to his leather armour and let it fall to the ground, revealing his thick and muscular body in all its naked glory. Turned on by simply holding his rapist in such a pitiful state, Ironhand contorted the Orc until his cock aligned nicely with the awaiting asshole, thrusting upwards and skewering his rapist with the same treatment as he was shown only a few hours previously. "AHHHH FUCK, IT HURTS. STOP!" cried out the chieftain as the 11-inch monster forced and burrowed its way up his canal, Chrisjolf's immense and blessed strength giving him the same force and power as Malacath himself, violently shoving his entire length in one thunderous stroke.

The transformed Orc only laughed as he raped and pillaged the defenceless and weak leader, the wise-women already beginning the ceremony for their new chieftain as he pounded and stretched the limp Orc's body, the old chieftain crying out in pain and pleasure as he was opened up in front of his entire stronghold. With every pump and stroke, the final cherry on top began to sink into Chrisjolf as his memories and prior knowledge began to dilute and diminish, his vocabulary and knowledge of alchemy soon fading away to be replaced with hedonistic desires of fucking and drinking. Malacath probably avoided mentioning the mental trade-off to the muscular morph but the 32 year old hulking brute didn't care in the slightest, finding even more enjoyment in his sexual lewdness now that he lacked the ability to properly judge right from wrong with the same moral compass.

It wasn't long before he had thoroughly bred and creamed his victim, holding his easily in his arms as he forced his way as high as he can, as deep as he could; making sure to shoot his precious, infused seed to avoid wastage. As he came, his nipples began to puff and leak their own lactate and Chrisjolf let out a ecstatic and pleasured groan, becoming the new champion of Malacath in both body and soul. The chieftain squirmed and became a loose and grovelled slut who craved more as he was dropped to the ground, beckoning for anyone to come and pound him until his guts poured out of his body. Chrisjolf had other plans in mind, looking towards Windhelm where he knew his mean brothers and drunken father resided, his cock springing back to full hardness as the ceremony completed.


End file.
